What the hell was I thinking?!

Let me sum up the past few days and you can all be the judges as to whether I am cut out for this country lifestyle...

Thursday, my in-laws were visiting (with new trees to plant, so my universe pollution has been downgraded to a category go fuck yourself) and wanted to eat at Larry's (can you blame them?).

Off to dinner we went and during dinner, my wonderful, U of I educated, otherwise intelligent husband commented that since he turned 31 this year, it had been 10 years since he was legally able to drink. He mentioned that he'd tried to calculate how many beers he'd consumed over the last 10 legal years, and figured that if he drank a case a week, he'd end up with 48 cases of beer per year... When a few of us questioned how he came to that final total, he said (with a tone clearly indicating WE were all complete idiots) "well, 1 case times 48 weeks in a year = 48 cases of beer." I'm like yeah, buddy, we got that part...where did the 48 weeks come from? He had no idea. "Well, there are 4 weeks per month (still acting like *I* am the moron here), times 12 months in a year...48 weeks." This went on and on until finally his mother had to explain that the correct math would be 365 days divided by 7 days in a week, totalling 52 weeks in a year. He didn't believe her.

"How can there be 5 weeks in a month?"
"Are all the calendars wrong then?"
"I don't believe you!"
"What do you mean not 5 FULL weeks in a month?"
"How do you account for February then? No months have to have SIX weeks to make up for it, so how do you explain that?"
"What about leap years?"

Wow.

I have a sneaking suspicion that his parents may be writing to U of I and asking for some of that tuition money back.

Maybe it wasn't the excess "smart cells" that would cause his brain to burst....


Sunday, we went to Steak n Shake and got into a discussion about where certain fast food chains started out.

Adam: "KFC, you know that one's from the south. Probably like Louisiana or something."
Me: "Or Kentucky..."
Adam: "...ooooooh. Duh. I meant to say Louisville, not Louisiana."
Me: "Right."
Adam: "Don't tell anyone about this, ok?"

Sure thing, sweetie! :)

Fast forward to this morning. I knew we had some construction crews coming to get the area in front of our garage ready for concrete, as well as bringing white rock in for the rest of the driveway.

I heard them show up and went out to see who was doing what and if they needed anything. I remembered the dog was outside, so I tracked her down and tried to drag her into the house. Bella is known for finding all sorts of lovely treasures, especially since previous construction crews have left lots of garbage everywhere. So far she's found 6 week old chocolate milk still in the container (smelled awesome when accidentally run over w/ a truck. Who knew chocolate milk turns pink after awhile?), rusty nails, bricks, old detergent bottles and etc. Today, she ran up to me with a leather shoelace in her mouth. We don't let her bring garbage in the house, so I grabbed the shoelace, pulled it out, and wouldn't you know...it was not a shoelace.

IT WAS A DEAD FUCKING MOUSE.

I dropped the mouse, started screaming, cussing, didn't even realize the construction crew was staring at me until they were right in front of me asking if I was ok. Apparently I was wringing my hands and staring at the ground...still screaming. I can still feel that nasty mouse tail in my hand. GROSS! Needless to say, the construction crew had a good laugh over that one.

Unfortunately, nasty day was not over.

My car was in the way of the construction crew, so I tried to get the dog into the car and move it down the road. She got in, with the dead mouse back in her mouth.

I dragged her and the mouse out of the car, got back in and moved it alone.

She's been puking up undigested dog food for the last 24 hours, so I wanted to make sure she didn't eat anything else, or get in the workers' way, so I started to drag her into the garage, where she promptly started gagging...and coughed up ANOTHER DEAD MOUSE. 4 minutes of screaming and swearing later, the dog and I were finally mouse-free and indoors. She's been whining ever since. Tough shit, puppy.

Has anyone seen my easy button lately? I need it. Or a shot. Whichever you track down first. Please?!

Doggy Fashion Don't

At the request of my mother and aunt, I give you: The Eyebrow Fiasco.

My parents watched our golden retriever, Bella, for a few hours over Easter weekend. We had Easter dinner with Adam's family and were set to stay at my parents' house later that night. Everything went as planned, and we arrived at my parents' around 11 pm. Everything was fine. We woke up, went to church, came back to Mom and Dad's and ate lunch. After we got back home that night, I started noticing that something was wrong with Bella. She didn't look right, but I couldn't quite place it. Finally, I realized...her eyebrows had been trimmed...cut, actually, not trimmed. They looked like little white stubs. Now, I will say that they'd been getting a bit long and starting to curl over towards her eyes...but she's a DOG. Who cares about her eyebrows? I knew what her eyebrows looked like before we dropped her off at my parents' house...so that left 2 scissor-wielding culprits.

I placed a phone call to Mom, knowing full well that she probably wasn't the Eyebrow Bandit. When I explained the situation, she had no idea what I was talking about, let alone that someone would even think to cut a dog's eyebrows. We started trying to figure out a timeline as to when the eyebrow escapade even occurred, since the dog wasn't there without me, Adam or Mom around for more than a few hours. We determined that Dad must've been the only one up early Easter morning, seen what he thought was a doggy fashion don't, and "remedied" the situation. As we were about to hang up, Dad came home, and she asked him what he knew about the situation. With the evidence stacked against him he admitted it. He's like, "yeah, I did it. So what? She looked like a crazy professor with those old eyebrows. They needed a trim." Maybe I should send in an application for that dog groomer show on TLC...apparently Dad is the expert. Poor Bella. Thank God he only went after her eyebrows!